Paving Stones
by Windblown.child
Summary: There are plenty of reasons it is said that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Otherwise, events spanning centuries might never have occurred. If Sherlock Holmes had known what would happen because he learned to have a heart, he might have lived alone. And if John Watson knew just what the future held, he might not have fought so hard to survive Afghanistan. No slash.
1. Diagnosis

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is based off of the most recent BBC version starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman and J.J. Abrams' Star Trek.

* * *

Diagnosis

There are plenty of reasons it is said that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Otherwise, events spanning centuries might never have occurred. If Sherlock Holmes had known what would happen because he learned to have a heart, he might have lived alone. And if John Watson knew just what the future held, he might not have fought so hard to survive Afghanistan.

* * *

"John, that cough has lasted 13 days now, don't you think you should see a doctor?" Sherlock looked up from the laptop when his flatmate finally stopped hacking wetly into a handkerchief.

"I am a doctor."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't see one."

"I'll see a doctor when you're actually considerate to normal people." The blond man sat back in his chair and tried to breathe deeply without triggering another attack.

Three hours later, John didn't miss the pointed way Sherlock kept his mouth shut while being ushered into another crime scene. Donovan stared suspiciously after the pair before going back to her duties. And then Anderson didn't know what to do when the detective suggested he stick his head in a loo with a 'please' tacked on the end. By the end of the rather short case, Holmes was physically biting his tongue to stop himself blurting out observations that might be offensive and John relented.

Of course John shouldn't have been surprised when Sarah was deemed too pedestrian and he was whisked half way across the city to a respiratory specialist only to be followed into the exam room by Sherlock. The one thing that kept him from sending the consulting detective back out to the waiting room was the concentrated effort the taller man was making to only ask questions regarding his health and left whatever dirty secrets he had deduced, as secrets. In the end, the specialist determined it was simply a nasty bout of pneumonia from a mid-winter plunge into the Thames and sent them on their way with a prescription for antibiotics.

"I told you it was nothing."

"Pneumonia is not nothing."

"You made it sound like I was on my deathbed."

"I can't have you being sick, it slows me down."

Recognizing that as being as close to sentimental as Sherlock got, the shorter man dropped the subject. A few days and he would be back to normal and the detective would return to announcing every little thing the people around them didn't want anyone to know. And he did feel much better after the antibiotics had run their course. Except there was still a slight crackling in the very bottom of his lungs if he exhaled too far.

* * *

If anyone should know that there are no secrets from Sherlock Holmes, it was the doctor. He had convinced himself he had hidden the uncomfortable sensation until he was abruptly woken from his nap by a cold stethoscope being pressed against his chest. John resigned himself to the fact that the detective would not just accept that it was the lingering effects of the pneumonia but he tried anyways.

"You still have fluid in your lungs."

Watson pulled his jumper down more forcefully than strictly necessary. "Everyone sounds like that after pneumonia."

"Not 5 weeks after finishing the antibiotics. You did finish them all, didn't you?"

He tried not to scoff at the hypocritical implication while reminding himself that the concern Sherlock was showing was a good thing. "Of course I took them all."

"We're going to get a second opinion." Sherlock announced and stood, the matter effectively closed.

The second doctor agreed with the first, and told Sherlock off for worrying over nothing. John then hurried his flatmate out of the office before the genius could tell the specialist exactly what he thought of his practice and his personal life. For the trip back to Baker Street, John was slightly concerned by how silent the detective was but at least he wasn't listening for every little crackle and wheeze that came out of the former soldier.

The next morning, however, found the doctor laying perfectly still as an MRI thumped and hummed around him. It was disconcerting being the center of Sherlock's attention for such an extended period of time, and he was sure there was nothing seriously wrong with his lungs. But that meant that the detective was pursuing this illness out of some reason other than evidence, which he never did. Finally, the voice over the intercom gave him permission to sit up.

It seemed to take forever for his flatmate and the new doctor to leave the little control room after studying the images. As every second ticked past, John alternated between being convinced they were all worrying over nothing and knowing that he was definitely ill. When the door finally opened, the grim look on the specialist's face was all the answer he needed.

Medical terms were thrown out and he knew the words, but the meanings weren't sinking in. Sherlock would have to repeat it all later once he had made a cup of tea and settled back in his chair in 221B Baker Street. Vaguely he wanted to thank the tall detective for taking control of the situation and convincing the doctor to perform the biopsy immediately. But he was completely terrified of what the results might show.

* * *

Every day for the next week, Sherlock was the first to fetch the post. He would carelessly toss aside bills and coupon flyers until the envelope from the third specialist came. The former soldier couldn't bring himself to demand the letter despite it being addressed to him and simply waited for his flatmate to tear it open. Nothing changed on Holmes' face as he read the results of the biopsy, but John's heart fell when the detective pulled out his phone and hurriedly punched buttons.

"I need a favor Mycroft."

John couldn't hear the older Holmes on the other end of the phone, but he knew him well enough to be sure he was lording over Sherlock's request.

"I need the best doctors you have."

He imagined that Mycroft was exasperatedly telling his little brother to simply visit St. Barts rather than bother him.

"It's for John."

Mycroft must have immediately agreed because Sherlock hung up his phone and picked up his coat. "I'm going to Barts. Don't wait up."

Watson nodded, eyes locked on the paper sitting innocently on the table. He couldn't bring himself to walk across the room to read the results. The doctor had known Sherlock long enough to know when he was fully focusing on a situation, and when he focused that intently, it was never a good thing. As the sun set over London, the flat steadily darkened but the former soldier was lost in a whirlwind of possible diagnoses, each more worrisome than the last.

Finally, long after the street lamps had come on, John pushed himself out of his chair and reached for the letter. Most of the words were unimportant to the doctor until he saw 'Cysts' and 'Test Positive' as well as 'Pleural Mesothelioma.' He had never seen a case of mesothelioma in all of his years as a doctor, but he remembered enough from training to know that it was serious and always fatal.

Sherlock eventually returned from St. Barts, arms full of files and books and set about researching everything he could find on John's diagnosis. Science had yet to find a cure, and even the very best care only extended the life expectancy a few years. John knew what was in store for him for the rest of his life and very briefly considered using his Browning as he had intended when he was first invalided back to London. But when he listened to his flatmate muttering about the idiocy of some doctors and their studies, he knew he could never do that to his friend.

John Watson was never one to back down in the face of adversity and decided that he was not going to be simply drug along by his diagnosis. He was going to fight for every day he could because Sherlock Holmes was fighting for him. Before he could settle himself in the chair across the table from his flatmate, the detective was holding out a file. For the first time in several days, the doctor smiled, glad that Sherlock was who he was.

The doctor fully expected Sherlock to tire of the subject as soon as Lestrade called with an interesting case, but when the DI bounded up the stairs, he was firmly denied without explanation. John simply shrugged and apologized. He wasn't quite ready to reveal his diagnosis to the Yard, though some excuse would have to be provided soon. From the medical reports he had read, it would quickly become apparent that he would be unable to keep up with Sherlock.

Once every bit of readily available information regarding his diagnosis and potential treatments had been absorbed, the duo prepared to tackle the larger problem of choosing a treatment with the help of Mycroft's specialists. Though, after only an hour of tests and evaluations, John was ready to murder the lot and say to Hell with his lungs until Sherlock's unmistakable voice echoed down the hallway.

"Don't you understand how important these cultures are? Take your incompetence and go!"

John took a deep breath and tolerated the poking and prodding for Sherlock's sake as much as his own. The detective would never admit that they had become dangerously co-dependent as soon as they had met. But the former soldier knew Sherlock would have trouble coping if anything happened to him before he was ready to let him go. What Watson didn't know was the extremes the consulting detective would go to in order to save him.


	2. Treatment

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is based off of the most recent BBC version starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman and J.J. Abrams' Star Trek.

* * *

Treatment

In less than a year, John underwent surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation yet his prognosis did not improve and running was entirely out of the question. Sherlock had completely given up all his work as a detective to focus on halting the disease's progress but they were rapidly running out of options. It wouldn't be long before the doctor would require an oxygen tank just to walk around the flat and they were awaiting the most recent MRI images.

"This can't be right."

"Did I move again?" John stood behind his flatmate to view the laptop.

"No, it's spreading."

Several red circles indicated new masses throughout his abdomen and a wave of nausea washed over the doctor. "Well I guess that's it then."

"Of course it isn't." The consulting detective slapped the laptop closed and placed his hands together under his chin, clearly ready to retreat to his mind palace.

"We've tried everything, Sherlock, and I'm only getting worse. It's spreading, so I'm not eligible for a transplant, and I'd rather have some dignity."

"Dignity is a fallacy I will not give in to." His eyes were hard and cold, firmly entrenched in his belief that death was only a difficult problem to be solved.

"Fine, I'm going out before you turn me into some experiment that can never leave the lab." The blond stomped across the room, pausing long enough to grab his cane for support during coughing fits before thumping down the stairs.

Sherlock stared at the blank space his only friend had left in the room. There were always other options, though not everyone had the access or the willingness to try them. He fortunately had both.

* * *

_"Match on at the Beehive. Fancy a pint? -JW"_

_"Cardiff?"_

"_Vs Braehead."_

"_You're on."_

Lestrade slid into the booth while motioning for a pint. "You're looking well, John."

The doctor scoffed. "It's the best I'll probably look again."

"I thought you were done with the chemo?"

While he and the inspector had never had much in common, they had formed a sort of friendship while Sherlock scoured crime scenes for clues. And John had turned to Lestrade after he was diagnosed for friendly support. The older man never treated him any differently and Watson was grateful.

"Chemo won't help any more."

"But you were doing well for a while."

John shrugged and took a long pull from his beer. "We've tried everything and the cancer is still spreading."

Greg considered his drink for a moment. "How long?"

"A few months, maybe less."

"Sherlock won't take it well."

"I know. We had a bit of a row when I left. Well, as much of a row as Sherlock ever has." They watched the match for a moment before John continued. "I'm just tired."

"From the drugs?"

"No, not really. Just tired of this, tired of Sherlock trying so hard. I think I'm ready for it to be on my terms."

"You don't mean?" Lestrade was already reaching for his phone to text the consulting detective if he needed to.

"No, of course not." The thought of suicide had drifted across his mind every now and then, but he never seriously weighed it as an option. "I'm just not sure why I'm fighting it any more."

"Of course you have to fight, that's what you do."

John sighed and Lestrade leaned closer over the table. "You know it would destroy Sherlock if you gave up now."

"Of course it wouldn't. He'd just go back to working cases and being a prat."

"He'd go back to how he was when I met him."

"You mean drugs?"

The silver haired man nodded. "He's never willingly given up his work before, he completely shut down his website and it's been a year since he's been to a crime scene. You've made him better and I'm afraid he'll lose that."

Watson stared at his empty pint glass. He knew all of the things the inspector had pointed out, he just needed them repeated occasionally. "I just don't know what else we can do. I mean I can't even shout at the telly without getting winded, so what use am I?"

"Just let him try. He's never failed before."

Hope and determination renewed, the doctor threw down some cash on the table and grabbed his cane. "Thank you Greg."

"Anytime."

John strode purposefully out of the pub, intending to chose another productive course of action. But he was stopped when he saw the black car idling at the kerb, Anthea leaning against the door on her blackberry. Without looking up, she opened the door for the shorter man to get in. The doctor had learned it was easier to just go along with wherever Mycroft wanted to take him and slid into the car.

Surprisingly, the elder Holmes was waiting for him, hands folded neatly on his umbrella. "Hello John. Out for a stroll?"

"Went for a pint."

Mycroft nodded, obviously deducing everything about the evening. "I thought you might like a ride back to Baker Street, since it's snowing."

"No it isn't." Watson looked out the window to confirm the state of the weather and cursed under his breath. Tiny white flakes had begun to float past the glass. "Fine."

"I also wanted to make sure you weren't thinking of giving up on your treatments."

Perhaps it was Sherlock's influence, but John couldn't resist sassing the government man. "It had crossed my mind."

"Well don't. If not for your sake, for Sherlock's."

It was the same thing Lestrade had said, but John bristled. "He's just going to have to get over it then, isn't he."

"Do not underestimate my brother, John, he might surprise you."

The car pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street and the former soldier quickly got out. He didn't dislike the older man per say, and he was incredibly grateful for all of the medical help he had received, but he was only equipped to deal with one Holmes brother. Unwilling to be overly rude, John nodded his thanks to Anthea and turned towards his flat.

Once he was out of the suddenly cold weather, the doctor took a deep breath and tackled the stairs. He made it all the way to the landing half way up when the coughing started. John braced himself on his cane and the railing and tried to bring up the mucus currently blocking his lungs. As he hacked into his elbow, lights danced before his eyes and the stairwell dimmed before going completely black.


	3. Stalling

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is based off of the most recent BBC version starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman and J.J. Abrams' Star Trek.

* * *

Stalling

Sherlock stood over the still form of the one person he considered to be his friend. It had been a week since he had found John collapsed on the stairs to their flat. The cold weather had aggravated his lungs and the coughing fit had caused a pulmonary embolism which dropped his blood pressure to dangerous levels. It had been mere minutes before Holmes had found the former solider, but those minutes had been enough to push his already weakened system into a coma.

The consulting detective knew the futility in projecting what would have happened if he had gone looking for John earlier, but the little voice in his head was determined to point out that the blond man would likely be awake. He hated that the last conversation they had shared was in anger and that he had been unable to stop this from happening. Sherlock allowed himself a few more moments of sentimentality before pushing it away and calling his brother.

"I want him at the Facility."

"You know that is too much, even for me."

"No it isn't."

"You're right, but are you willing to pay the price?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate before giving his answer. He had promised to save the doctor and he would keep that vow, even if it was the last thing he did. "Yes, anything."

"Very well, I'll have him transferred. And Sherlock, there is no going back."

"I know Mike."

* * *

Before meeting John Watson, there was only one photo that the consulting detective had willingly kept that didn't relate to a case. It was of himself and Mycroft when they were children, before they began to hate each other. They had been carelessly playing at pirates when their mother snapped the picture, freezing the moment as proof that they hadn't always been so cold and distant. Sherlock had kept it in the frame it came in, but hid it in his room, only looking at it when he came across it while searching for something else.

Now, however, there was a small album that sat beside his bed, one of the few possessions he had brought along when he left Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had put it together when she had been told that no one was returning to the flat. Inside was the photo with Mycroft, and one of Mrs Hudson, but the rest were all of John. Some were from newspapers, one was a group photo from Christmas, and Lestrade had even donated a couple.

But the detective's favorite was from a crime scene documentor. They had been caught in the background as he was explaining his deductions with extensive hand waving, Lestrade had his arms crossed and was frowning slightly, but John was smiling broadly, delighted as always by Sherlock's brilliance. In that single photo, the doctor was alive and smiling, and always running after the taller man. That was the photo that convinced him to get out of bed in the morning when he wanted to give up.

The Facility was like a spider at the center of a web made up of smaller compounds like Baskerville. There were technologies that the public only dreamed about, experiments that would make philosophers cringe, more security than the Tower of London, and even its very existence was supposed to be top secret. Scientists that worked there nervously joked that once you got in, you never got it, which was probably more true than they knew. Sherlock would hardly be interested in the place, except it had the means to give John more time for him to develop a cure.

In the very back of the album was a photo that Sherlock had taken. It was crooked, and there was a lens flare in the corner, and it made a lump in his throat when he looked at it, but it fueled a fire to leave no line of inquiry untried. It was a photo of a metal and glass capsule covered in frost, containing John Watson, eyes closed as if merely sleeping.

It had been difficult to decide to have the blond cryogenically frozen when he fell into a coma. But the only other option was to let his body slowly atrophy, the disease continuing to spread until machines and science could no longer keep him alive. John's parents had passed while he was in Afghanistan and Harry had not objected to the procedure, signing over medical decision making responsibilities to Sherlock. Now with the former soldier preserved indefinitely, it was only a matter of time to find a solution.

Except years continued to pass without a single sign of a potential treatment and Sherlock began to worry that science would not advance sufficiently in his lifetime. He began to long for the dreamless sleep his companion had been locked in. It would be incredibly easy to simply wait for technology to catch up to his needs without wasting his own time. Surely Mycroft would not deny him the opportunity to save his intellect until it could be put to better use.

"It will break Mummy's heart."

"I have to do this."

"Why? You could go back to London, go back to solving crimes."

"You know I can't."

Mycroft sighed and suddenly wanted a cigarette. "Fine, but do one thing for me."

Sherlock made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, impatient to start the process that would allow him to wait out time.

"Do not hate me when you wake up."

The tall man wanted to say that he never truly hated his brother, but the phone went dead before he could choose the words. It hardly mattered anyways. He would likely never see Mycroft again.


	4. Cure

Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is based off of the most recent BBC version starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman and J.J. Abrams' Star Trek.

* * *

Cure

Memories played across the genius' mind unbidden. John holding out his phone, John laughing at a crime scene, John illuminated by police lights, John gripping painfully on to his elbow to keep from falling as he coughed wetly. Each smile and disapproving frown, every moment he had spent with the doctor was playing through his mind and his eyes burned.

As soon as the medical personnel had announced him fit, Sherlock sought out his companion. John Watson's cryotube was unchanged except perhaps for more frost obscuring the glass plate. The tall man carefully wiped away the ice to look upon his friend. He was still frozen in time, oblivious to the changes around them, waiting for the cure that only Holmes could create. And so he left the cold storage warehouse to continue his research.

Technology had advanced significantly during his sleep, though cancer in general had yet to be cured. The nature of the disease made each instance different and advanced cases were still fatal. If he awoke John now, they would have a handful of sedentary years but that was not acceptable.

Sherlock decided that if he did not find a promising line of inquiry in 6 months, he would again leapfrog through time. He would rather spend his years with John in the uncertain future than waste them now looking for an answer that didn't exist.

Technology advanced exponentially every time Sherlock awoke. Flying cars, food replication, and even space travel was becoming accessible to common people. Unfortunately, cancer seemed to have become accepted as a fact of life and science pressed into different areas of inquiry. The Facility could grow a kidney from a pill and heal any wound without scaring, even triple the strength of a man's bones, but nothing could strip the many cysts and tumors from John's body without killing him in the process.

Sherlock spent days in his mind palace, turning over every bit of information he had not already deleted until he wished he could bounce the ideas off of John as he had done centuries before. He scoffed at how simple their time at Baker Street now seemed. What he wouldn't give to see John frown at him again or insist that he apologized to Lestrade.

As miraculous as the human body was, able to survive even grievous physical trauma, it was John's genetics that had doomed him. Sherlock stared a holographic model of his companion's DNA, marveling at the evolution that had created that one single man. If only a few G's had been C's and a handful of A's were T's, the blond doctor would have lived to a ripe old age with no complications.

As if struck by lighting, Sherlock jerked. Why couldn't he change what nature had gotten wrong. A few tweaks to John's base genetics would turn his body against the disease, but why stop there when he could improve in so many areas. Strength and speed, and of course intelligence, along with better healing abilities and nothing could stop them from singlehandedly solving all of the crimes in Britain or even the world.

Sherlock worked at a fevered pitch, testing his theories on the easiest genetic source he could procure, his own. There would be only one opportunity to get the formula correct after John was revived. There could be no error in his method.

As the last of the changes took effect, Sherlock felt he was ready. He was stronger, faster, and smarter than ever before, as well as imbued with almost instantaneous cellular regeneration. Wounds would heal, diseases eradicated, and genetic damage was repaired in moments. He could finally awaken his friend and provide the cure he had promised centuries before.

However, the genius had no way of knowing that he would come to regret the lengths he had gone to in order to save John.

* * *

The price for housing John Watson and Sherlock's free reign of the Facility was relatively benign. Any and all discoveries and inventions by the former consulting detective would be the property of the conglomerate government entity that funded the Facility. Holmes would have no say in how the technology or scientific discoveries would be expounded or used, including his gene augmentation. And as history has proven time and again, the first application was always military.

Over the decades that Sherlock's research had taken place, the conglomerate was pleased with his advancements, but they were overjoyed at his last contribution and were more than willing to send him on his way with his companion and a sizable pension. With the gene augmentation technology, they could simply make more intelligent scientists and better soldiers, and perfect humanity. What they didn't count on, however, was the genius' lack of notes.

And so John and Sherlock went on their merry way, adjusting to the new societal norms. In the meantime, though, the Facility was trying to work out how to change adult DNA to suit their desires as Holmes had. Countless failures forced a new line of experiments which resulted in dozens of augmented embryos artificially grown to be the new peacekeepers of the world.

Regrettably, the second generation of Augments was ruled by aggression and ushered in World War III. The Eugenics Wars decimated the globe until Sherlock could no longer ignore his guilt in creating the superior race. He emerged from his retirement to unite the Augments and to lead them to peace with natural humans. But to lead them, he was forced to sometimes utilize the same savagery.

Living with such brutality took its toll on the genius and he did what he had to in order to cope. He was forced to separate the consulting detective from the tyrant that ruled over northern Africa and parts of Europe and Asia and so he took a new name. Khan for the ancient nomadic emperors and Noonien Singh for the specialist that had finally determined the source of John's illness

Khan ruled firmly but fairly over John and the 83 Augments that followed him, tempered by John's remaining humanity, but the rest of the successive generations tore through the world. Eventually, natural humans rose up against the Augments that treated them as little more than chattel, ending the Eugenics Wars and condemning all genetically modified people to death as war criminals.

Faced with John's eminent execution, Khan leveraged every advantage he possessed to secure his people's escape. Their passage from Earth would be dangerous and they could only avoid detection by surrendering themselves to the cold embrace of cryogenics. If everything went according to plan, the 71 Augments that escaped would awaken far from prosecution on Earth and remain as the crew under John Watson and Khan Noonien Singh.

Somewhere, the plan went awry, and the Bottany Bay drifted aimlessly for over a century with no way to awaken the crew. Until an ambitious Starfleet Admiral discovered the silent ship and saw his opportunity. Sherlock was again forced to recreate himself to secure his crew's survival. He was given the identity of John Harrison and instructions to create weapons and warships for the imminent battle with the Klingons.

The man who was once Sherlock Holmes never wanted to destroy, nor did he wish to create. He existed to observe. But that was taken from him and he was twisted by the need to survive into something that only knew how to create destruction. When he tried to escape his warmongering master, his crew was threatened, his family. And he would do anything to protect them, including forgetting who he had ever been.

Alone in the world for the first time since meeting John Watson, Khan gave in to vicious brutality, determined to make Admiral Marcus suffer as he had at the loss of his crew and his longest companion. If he wanted a war, that is exactly what he would get. What the genius didn't count on, however, was a captain just as determined to avenge his fallen friend, armed with 72 photon torpedoes.

The situation was too perfect. Khan had his revenge on Marcus, a ship that lived up to its Dreadnaught classification, and his crew, ready to be beamed aboard and awoken. As he waited for Commander Spock to reach the logical conclusion and comply, Khan imagined the moment he would awaken John Watson again. He was less without the blond man and he knew it.

Khan experienced confusion and panic for the first time as the photon torpedoes began to detonate in the cargo hold of the immense ship, sending shudders through her bulk. He was so close to having everything he wanted and it was literally going up in flames, fueled by the frozen corpses of his family, of his John. In that moment he lost the last shred of humanity that once tied him to Earth. Starfleet would pay in flesh and he would destroy the planet one bloody body at a time. They should have let him sleep.

What caught him off guard was a crewman that would do anything for his captain. Khan was ashamed of what he had done, thankful for a moment that John couldn't see what he had become. Hand to hand, the tall man would easily have beaten Spock, but he held the power to save a loyal captain for the crew that needed him. The genius gave in to the stunner and the beating from the Vulcan.

After all the blood that would be needed was taken, Khan made one request of the Starfleet doctor overseeing Kirk's revival. Before he was frozen again, he wished to see one capsule. To look upon the sleeping form of his first officer again and reassure himself that John was safe. And so he surrendered himself to pass through time dreamless and oblivious, as long as the former soldier was by his side.


End file.
